shortening the discussion.

"Yes, ma'am, and it's a tavern," assured her grandson, kneeling upon
the cushion beside her to stretch his neck forward.

It was a tavern in a sandy valley. It was lighting a cautious candle
or two as they approached. A farmer was watering his team at the
trough under the pump spout. All the premises had a look of Holland,
which Grandma Padgett did not recognize: she only thought them very
clean. There was a side door cut across the centre like the doors of
mills, so that the upper part swung open while the lower part
remained shut. A fat white woman leaned her elbows upon this,
scarcely observing the travellers.

Grandma Padgett paused at the front of the house and waited for
somebody to come out. The last primrose color died slowly out of the
sky. If the tavern had any proprietor, he combined farming with
tavern keeping. His hay and wheat fields came close to the garden,
and his corn stood rank on rank up the hills.

"They must be all asleep in there," fretted Grandma Padgett. The
woman with her arms over the half door had not stirred.

"Shall I run in?" said Bobaday.

"Yes, and ask if Zene stopped here. I don't see a sign of the wagon."

Her grandson opened the carriage door and ran down the steps. The
white-scrubbed hall detained him several minutes before he returned
with a large man who smoked a crooked-stemmed pipe during the